


To Him Ascribe All Sin

by messageredacted



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:46:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In hell there are no thoughts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Him Ascribe All Sin

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written 14 March 2009.

In hell there are no thoughts.

If heaven is the refuge of pure thought and intellect, all physical need stripped from soul, hell is the opposite. There is no thought, just the quivering animal desires. Smell/touch/taste/sound/sight and nothing more.

A flash: _Cigarettes / frostbite / feces / whisper / white._

Demons have their origins in humanity, and maybe that’s where hell gets its ideas.

A flash: _Burnt flesh / matted fur / charcoal / sob / bloat._

Angels were never human, and maybe that’s why Castiel doesn’t understand.

##

 _The whole earth has been corrupted through the works that were taught by Azazel._

Humans create their own hells. That’s what makes it so much fun to watch. Those who come to hell already know what they deserve.

Something shifts on the wind and the smell changes. Azazel turns his head, sniffing. There is something new coming in his direction, something cold and clean.

 _To him ascribe all sin._

##

There is a dark-haired man here, his hair shaggy, his jaw square. He is in a heap on the floor, sobbing. It’s hard to say what he thinks he sees: his sons, perhaps, or his dead wife.

“A breath of fresh air,” says the demon standing over the man. His nose twitches as if the smell disgusts him. “Don’t get that down here too often.”

Castiel casts a glance at the dead man, who doesn’t seem to notice him.

“He sold his soul fair and square,” Azazel continues. “He made a deal.”

“I’m not here for him,” Castiel says.

The man crumples at the waist, shoving his knuckles into his mouth, choking on a sob. Castiel pauses, sees a flash of _gasoline / impact / blood / car horn / broken glass_. He looks away.

Azazel cocks his head. “Then what?”

##

Time moves differently. Sometimes a breath can smear through a week; sometimes there is a blink and things move backwards. Azazel plays with time like clay.

The future, however, has no place here.

The angel watches him with big dark eyes. “You want Samuel Winchester to lead your army,” he says. It shouldn’t surprise Azazel that the angel knows but he says it so baldly, without inflection.

There is no reason to deny it so Azazel doesn’t. Instead he drawls: “You want me to stop.”

Castiel studies him. “His brother will cause you grief.”

The non sequitur gives him pause. “Are you warning me?” Azazel asks, feeling the absurdity.

“You will not kill Dean Winchester, or allow harm to befall him.”

It is suddenly clear to Azazel. A bargain. He is good at this sort of thing. He has done this before. He smiles, and looks Castiel up and down.

“And in return?”

“You can have Samuel,” Castiel says.

##

Azazel reaches out to Castiel and Castiel doesn’t resist. In the time that their lips meet—and the time is both interminable and fractional—there is a flash of something, _cut grass / stone / sulphur / screaming / a flash of fire in the pan of a gun._


End file.
